Strawberry Parfait
by Donna of the Grey
Summary: After the incident at Clyde's party, Sheila believes it's best for her son to attend private school. However, she did not count on the Principal's son. [ChristophexKyle]
1. Prologue

**Rating: **_T_

**Pairings: **_Christophe x Kyle_

**Warnings: **_Nothing yet._

**Author of Chapter:** _Donna of the Grey_

**Notes: **_This will be co-written with TehSmexyRamen. Why this pairing? Because there isn't nearly enough of it, and we felt we should add to the number of them out there. Next chapter will come out next week. Enjoy._

_**P**__r_ol_o__g_u_**e**_

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"_WHAT_!"

Such a word could not describe the shock and desperation that sixteen year old Kyle Broflovski was feeling at the time. It clearly showed as well. His bright emerald eyes were wide open and even his jaw had dropped open in surprise. He was sure if he let it hang any lower, it would fall off his face.

Of course, his mother took no notice as she moved hurriedly about the room, packing things into a suitcase. Pulling the closet doors open, she took some clothes and folded them neatly before setting them inside the case. After one final trip to and from the closet, she turned to her son.

Sheila sighed momentarily before she spoke up, "You heard me, bubee."

This snapped the red head out of his reverie and he dashed up to her side, grabbing her arm to both garner her attention and stop her from setting his shirt into the suitcase. He studied her for a second before he took a deep breath.

"What in the world for?"

She slammed the suitcase shut in a fluid motion and glared at her son coldly. Even her red lips turned into a grim line as her pale green eyes focused on him. In the light they look almost demonic.

"You know very well what!" Sheila's shrill voice shook as she headed towards the door and dumped the suitcase loudly on the floor. She marched back to Kyle in heavy furious steps and she leaned against him, jabbing him on the chest with one manicured finger. Kyle wince, knowing what was coming.

"Don't ask me mister!"

Kyle paused as she zipped up a navy blue sports bag angrily and began to shove some of his clothes inside; she didn't even bother to fold them.

"Is this . . . is this about Clyde's party?" He asked with a slightly hesitant voice.

Sheila briskly nodded and started tossing things into the sports bag. She sent another hard look at him. Her lips pursed before she spoke up, "Why, yes. It took you _long_ enough."

"Mom, I swear, I didn't mean it!" Kyle responded defensively as realization dawned on him. He knew what she was talking about. After all, she had only made a big deal about it for the past two weeks.

"Is that right, Kyle?" Sheila snapped, "How could you not mean to canoodle with Kenny McKormick?"

Kyle mentally slapped himself. He'd have to say something way better than 'I didn't mean it' in order to get his mother to change her mind. His eyes scanned the room for anything to help him, or at least trigger a good enough excuse.

"I was drunk!" He blurted out, and soon quickly began to regret what he had said.

"And why, pray tell, would you be drinking?" Sheila barked, her face turning into a look of horror, rage, and disbelief. "You're not old enough to drink any alcoholic beverages, Kyle!" Her finger jabbed at his should accusingly.

"I . . ." He paused. He had no idea what to say. "They spiked the punch!"

She sighed and rubbed her temples with her fingers and she stared contemplatively at her son. "And what lovely friends you have. Why would you hang around with those types of . . . hooligans?"

"It was Clyde's cousin, mom! None of us knew."

"I don't care, Kyle. I really don't. And don't think badly about this. It's good for you."

"Does it have to be an all-boys _private school_? Don't you think you're overreacting?" Kyle asked with a slightly desperate voice. "I mean really, I just kissed Kenny. I don't like him! I like Rebecca, which is why she's my girlfriend!"

"Now, I know a boys' school would seem rather . . . ridiculous after your event with that McKormick boy, but the Principal is a good friend of mine and promised to keep a good eye on you."

"You're going to send me to a school so you can spy on me?" Kyle asked in disbelief. "I can't believe you, mom! You're keeping me from my friends and my . . . my girlfriend?"

Her cold pale eyes were focused on him again. "Kyle, you need to know discipline, and since that school has dormitories, they can enforce their students to follow the rules, which may I remind you, you need to learn."

"But—!"

"Besides, that Rebecca is clearly no good for you."

"Mooom!"

"Kyle, you're going, whether you like it or not!" With that, Sheila zipped the bag up and tossed it next to the suitcase. Kyle followed her out of the room and chased after her.

"But why can't I just stay at school?"

"The Principal's son is going to come and get you tomorrow." Sheila stated as she made her way to her room. She opened the door hastily and turned to look at her son, who was sporting a look of complete horror on his face.

"_Tomorrow?_" He shrieked loudly.

"Go away, Kyle!" Sheila snapped before she shut the door on his face with a grand slam. However, all he could do was stare at the door in front of him with a stupefied look.

He slowly turned, still surprised from their conversation. Kyle couldn't believe what she was doing. Just because he kissed . . . okay, _made out_ with Kenny because he was drunk, she was going to send him to an all-boys' school? That made no sense.

Kyle sighed and slid down onto the floor desperately. "DAMN IT!"

"Kyle, keep your voice down and keep packing, mister!"

He growled to himself and through gritted teeth responded, "Yes, _mom_."

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_There's the prologue. I hope you enjoyed it. _

_Please leave a review._

Thanks.


	2. Unbelievable!

**Rating: **_T_

**Pairings: **_Christophe x Kyle_

**Warnings: **_Swearing._

**Author of Chapter:** _TehShmexyRamen_

_**Cha**__**p**__**t**_e_**r**_ 1

There. I'm finally finished with my packing! Oh joy . . . . Not. Since WHEN does my mom think that I, Kyle Broflovski, am all of a sudden a homosexual? Just because I fucking made-out with one of my best friends?! She thinks I'm a fucking FAGGOT!? Okay, so maybe making-out with Kenny isn't the _straightest_ thing I've done in my lifetime, but JESUS it's my first offence in my whole life! SHIT dude . . . I was drunk, and I was telling the honest truth when I told my mother that they spiked the punch . . . well . . . partly.

Stan and Kenny got me to drink some sort of wine with them, which didn't help me out much. It clashes too much with alcoholic tasting punch. If I didn't know my friends as well as I do, I would swear that Stan and Kenny just wanted an easy target to swap spit with. I didn't do anything with Stan, thank God. I mean, I would really rather kiss my best friend over a ghetto slut. I must admit, as much as I can remember, he was _really _good at kissing. I mean wow dude, he HAD to have had tons of experience . . .

My girlfriend, Rebecca, wasn't there. She had to work . . . at the titty bar. She LOOKS eighteen, I swear it. She is still, pretty much, a slut. But not as big of a slut as Kenny. I think she envies him for that. Why am I, top student of South Park high school, runner-up of the school's spelling bee competition, and class president, going out with a stripper who lies about her age to make some extra cash showing off her fake (yes, fake) breasts? Well, as much as I hate to admit that my mother is . . . pretty much right . . .

I am starting to figure out I'm growing more attracted towards the male gender.

Or in other words . . .

A fag.

That's right. My girlfriend is my own personal cover up. Doesn't sound like something I would normally do, does it?

I'm growing up with a mom who bashes and tears apart anything she disagrees with. What the hell do you THINK I'm going to do? Go right up to her and tell her that being around people like Stan or Kenny; even people like _Craig_, and oh my God even _Tweek_, for God's sake, give me thoughts and give me feelings that I would like to experiment with?! She would KILL me. She would lock me up in my room until I discard of any homosexual thoughts of the male gender.

I'm a sixteen-year-old virgin.

I think my mom once ENCOURAGED me to have sex with Rebecca. Once, but I'm not sure. I mean, MY mom wanting me to fuck at sixteen? Not likely.

But I think that she's been curious of my sexuality . . . But I don't know for HOW long . . . I mean, I pretty much just realized it myself.

Strange, huh?

I don't really think I'm GAY, maybe bi-sexual. Maybe even bi-curious.

Metro-sexual?

Stan, Kenny, Cartman and I ALL went through that phase together.

Hell, the whole town of South Park did.

I get mistaken for a girl often. Maybe it's because I'm very slender, I almost have a womanly physique. I don't hide my hair in my green child's hat (though I still have that hat, it hardly even fits me anymore), and I've learned to tame my hair now. I style it; sometimes I even straighten it (it takes me almost three hours to straighten it, so I only do it on special occasions, AKA, Holidays when I spend time with my family, my whole family), causing my hair to fall past my shoulders. Stan says I look pretty, though he's making fun of me all at the same time. Today, I'm wearing it like it is naturally, curly.

My style may be a reason why people question me about my gender as well. I tend to wear skin-tight clothes, usually in assorted colors, such as green, navy anything, camouflage, brown, black, white, sometimes red or blue, and I tend to wear a fair amount of pink. I hardly ever wear the same thing in a week. My pants are those kind Kenny calls 'Fag pants', because they show off my ass. I wear jeans, but they usually are also tight. Hardly anyone complains . . .

Though sometimes I think I should switch to more baggy clothes. Bebe keeps trying to squeeze my ass. She calls me these strange pet names all the fucking time.

Sugar buns. Eye candy. Sweet cheeks. Hot ass.

It's because of HER that Kenny has just recently been calling me that.

People just can't get over the fact that I have STYLE. Just because I'm a boy who likes to get cleaned up and look nice, doesn't mean I'm a girl, or I'm flat-out GAY.

The people of South Park suck.

They can suck my balls for all I care.

Shit dude . . . how long have I been ranting on? I have so much crap to take care of now!

. . . Like, say my goodbyes.

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"Mom! I'm going to go tell Stan and them I'm leaving!"

I eyed the doorknob when I felt her cold stare. Hey, it isn't like she _grounded_ me or anything, and she knows that when it comes between my friends and I, I'm not leaving with ought a goodbye. I swear that I almost burned a hole into the door before she finally agreed to let me free… for a short amount of time, I'm sure…

"Fine, bubee. You have . . . "

I turned my head around, just as she looked at the living room clock,

" . . . Exactly thirty-five minutes. If you are one second late, you will be in for it, young man."

What was worse than leaving your friends behind to go to some place you aren't one-bit familiar with? What is worse than leaving your hometown with some stranger? Getting your dick chopped off, maybe, but mom wouldn't go that far.

. . . But I could be wrong.

I shake off the thought as I nodded, setting a time limit on my wristwatch.

"Yes ma'am . . . I won't be long."

"Love you, bubee. Don't be late."

She loves me? She LOVES ME?! Bullshit. She's letting her own blood-related son leave with some stranger. She thinks I'm gay, and even if I am (though I'm not fully sure yet), she couldn't accept it. She has her own SPY to see if I AM gay! What the hell dude?! She doesn't love me!

. . . But she may be doing it all because she worries about me. She may love me, in her usual bitchy way.

Hey, being attracted to guys (and some girls) isn't all I've come to accept.

She's a bitch.

I've KNOWN that, but I could just never accept people like Cartman calling my mom by such a name. I once did, when I hated her being called by that name. She pissed me off . . .

That isn't the point, though.

I'm halfway to Stan's house by the time I'm done thinking all of this crap. He lives right by me, so I don't think much when I see a familiar automobile in their driveway. Though it's not theirs . . . It's some trashy pick-up truck, and right away, I know it belongs to Kenny and his parents.

Lucky break, huh? This will save me a good fifteen minutes of time.

I look at my watch; it reads 6:23 P.M. I left home three minutes ago . . . Just as the porch lights flicker, I knock on the door. It is already dark, it gets this was early here, which kind of sucks. It gets colder when it's dark. I am reminded of the temperature out here and I stick my gloved hands inside of my orange and brown jacket pocket. I can see my breath as I keep my mouth covered by my baby green scarf.

I'm making clouds of smoke until he answers the door.

"Hello, Randy. May I speak with Stan?"

The thing I like being best friends with Stan is that I get to call his parents by their first names. I also am allowed to call them my own parents. Stan's parents usually invite me to go on family vacations with them. I call them Mom and Dad when we do, and they don't mind it, because I am pretty much their second son.

He flashes a smile that only Stan's parents could ever display. Tender and welcoming. My parents hardly ever smile. And when they do, it isn't the same as theirs.

He opens the door wider, a sign that I have been invited inside. I can see Sharon (Stan's mom) working in the kitchen. She's making treats, and I can smell them. My stomach yells as I smell fresh cookies. I mentally punch myself in the stomach as I hurry up the stairs. I can clearly hear Shelly's music from the hallway. She had the worst taste in music. She's into R&B, and old pop music like Britney Spears. She adores boy bands and it annoys the living hell out of me.

I thank the Lord that Stan, Kenny and I enjoy the same music. Cartman… not so much. He's into the classics. And I mean the OLD classics. The kind that only old people appreciate anymore.

I get far enough to where I can hardly make-out the words blasting from that retched CD player of hers, and I find myself outside of Stan's door. It is open, and I peek in to make sure nobody was naked or anything (I don't know why I think that, I guess it has just become a habit of mine. I've walked in a few times on people like that . . .) before I step inside the room.

Stan is sitting at his computer, in some chat room or something. Kenny is lying on his nicely made bed, looking up at the ceiling with his arms crossed behind his head. It takes a minute for them both to register that I have entered the room, and I'm greeted with a simple 'Hey' from Stan (who is now looking over his shoulder to see me), and a muffled 'What's up, dude?' from Kenny (who still has his eyes glued to the ceiling).

Their styles haven't changed all too much. Okay, Kenny's style never really changed. Stan's changed almost as much as mine, almost. He doesn't wear jackets unless it is cold out (which it is, but they have a heater), and wears mostly blacks and whites, usually loose, but sometimes he puts on things like me, skin tight. I must say as his best friend, he looks really good in form-fitting clothes. He always wears jeans, always. Never leather pants like me. Though I know he would look good in them. He usually wears form-fitting striped, long-sleeved shirts of any color with a loose-ish top to cover. He is commonly found wearing black beret-like hats, and he had blonde streaks in his hair. He's sporty, so all together; he is very handsome looking in the clothes he wears.

I sound like a fag.

Kenny doesn't really have a choice in what he wears, seeing to how he is as poor as the home-less people. The only thing different about him is that he has a tongue piercing, belly button piercing, and his left ear had three piercing in it. All of them he did himself. Like he can afford to get somebody at the mall or something to pierce them for him.

He also wears these torn up hobo gloves, and when it gets too hot for him to wear his jacket (the one he's had since… I believe this one he has had since sixth grade, he had to throw out the other one.), he wears a skin-tight, black tube top with the band Three Days Grace imprinted on it. I thought tube tops were for girls . . . ? Hmn . . .

He looks nice in my eyes, I mean, he has a figure almost like mine, sky blue eyes you can drown in, a sexy smile and blonde hair that almost reaches his shoulders. He's pretty damn good-looking.

I still sound like a fag.

By the time I get rid of my thoughts of my friends, I feel a hand find a home on my right shoulder. It doesn't take me long to figure out who it belonged to.

"Hey, dude. I'm sorry for the other night. Man, how bad did your mom give it to you? Are you going to be grounded or what?"

His hood is off, I can tell because, well, his voice is clear.

"Shit Kenny, I hope you didn't get him into THAT much trouble."

"Oh fuck you, Stan, you got him to drink, too!"

"Yeah, but I wasn't the one shoving my tongue down his throat."

Their tone of words weren't crude. They weren't having a spat. They had laughter in their voice. You see, we are the type of friends that called each other cock-sucking bastards, and take it as either a compliment, or a joke. I loved that about our relationship. With Cartman, though… we all took things like that as a threat or competition. He doesn't hang out with us much anymore, now that his girlfriend, Wendy, stole him from us. Not that we really care. Stan, Kenny and I hate them both.

"Answer us, dude." Stan said, almost in a chanting manner, "What's your punishment?"

"Yeah!" Kenny joined in, "Tell us, tell us!"

They continue to beg me, Stan even shuts off his computer to come up to me and bug me about it.

"Fine . . . shit . . . "

I'm not smiling, I have my serious face on, and both of them realize this and quiet themselves down.

"I'm leaving . . . "

"No dude, you just got here!" Stan whines.

"No, idiot . . . I'm LEAVING, I'm leaving South Park . . . !"

Silence.

More silence.

Kenny breaks it.

" W-what?!"

"My mom was pissed, dude. She hardly gave me a chance to explain. She put words into my mouth and turned my own words against me . . . Dude, she's made up her mind . . ."

"K-Kyle, you can't leave us! She can't make you!"

"Yes . . . yes she can, Stan . . . She packed my clothes and made me pack the rest. I'm supposed to be leaving tomorrow . . ."

"TOMORROW?!"

They shriek, they do it in unison. I'm digging holes in the shag carpet. I'm too afraid to look at them both. I can feel my throat drying up, and my muscles are starting to tense up.

I don't want them to feel bad.

I don't want them to feel guilty.

I don't want them to beg me to stay.

Because no matter what, I can't change my mom's mind.

…

"Kyle . . . I-I . . . this is my entire fault. I should have never . . . "

I don't have to look up to realize that Kenny has covered his face with his jacket. He's sobbing in it. I feel like my heart has shattered, because I made him cry. Kenny never cries . . . Ever. Unless, something is really serious . . .

Stan is standing there. Just standing there. I can feel his eyes on me. They are asking me to tell him that I'm lying. But I'm not. I don't lie like that. I feel like shit, even more when he throws me into his arms and starts sobbing into my jacket. He's chanting 'I'm sorry I'm sorry' into me. That is when I realize that this is an even bigger deal than what I had thought.

They knew how my mom was. They knew she would follow through with her plan, that there were no ifs, ands or buts. They knew she would make sure I would never be able to see them again, not for a long while.

All three of us are sobbing at this point, and I have twelve minutes to get home.

We all calm ourselves down after a few minutes and talk for a bit. I tell them about my mom's full plan, where I am going, when I'm going and how they can contact me and who was picking me up. I didn't know exactly, but I did know it was the principal's son. That was all I knew.

After a few more goodbyes and apologies, I leave the house. I can feel my face is still wet. I know my cheeks are red and that it was easy to tell that I was crying. But mom wouldn't have to know that. I was sick of telling her the full-on truth. That is what got me in trouble in the first place.

You see, I'm a horrible drunk. I'm a stupid drunk.

I was stupid enough to deny Stan's offer to crash out at his place. Instead, I went home. Stupid mistake number one. I was so liquored up; I almost fell over when I entered the house. Mom caught on to this and demanded why I acted like this. She claimed that she smelt the alcohol in my breath. Damn, I could hardly lie to her. I told her everything, everything about me drinking. It wasn't long before she realized that my lower lip was slightly puffy (from Kenny nipping at it), and that I had a few hickies. I told her about that too.

She sent me up to my room (after letting out about half of her rage upon my fragile drunken state), I'm sure that while I slept, she rearranged the whole 'Me going to the male-boarding school' thing. I'm a real dumbass.

When I woke up the morning after (this morning), she let me in on her little plan. I hadn't remembered ANYTHING that had happened the other night, so I at first had no clue at what she was getting at. Until she reminded me. I couldn't believe I had told my mom all of that shit. I mean . . . dude . . .

I made it home a few minutes early. My mom naturally greeted me, and sent me to my room to take care of anything else that needed to be done.

Which was nothing.

I ate dinner with my family, before I was sent right back up to my room.

I feel like a caged animal . . .

I'm not the least bit tired, and I have to wake up early in the morning. Reading helps me get to sleep, and I'm out in about an hour . . .

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I felt like I had only gotten an hour worth of sleep. But it turns out that I had gotten about six.

I didn't sleep in any pajamas. Instead, I just slept in the clothes I was planning to wear on my ride to my new hell.

I felt like a wreck, but I didn't give a flying fu-?!

CHRISTWHOISTHISFREAKSTANDINGATMYBEDSIDE?!

I nearly fell out of my bed when I saw an unfamiliar figure standing a few feet away from my bed. Who was this person, why were and why were they in my room at . . .

I glance at my wristwatch.

"God, it's . . . seven in the morning. Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my room?!"

When my eyes focused on the figure, I could tell that it was a male. His eyes were a chocolate brown; you could almost swear that his eyes were black like his pupils. He had a rugged look to him, and his hair was messy, also a fair brown color. He wore a buttoned up camouflage T-shirt that clung to his body; I could spot a loose brown undershirt as well. His pants were camo, baggy as well, and he wore a studded belt to keep those huge pants up. His black leather boots look like they made him at least a few inches taller than he really was. All in all, it all seemed to suit him quite well.

My inner self cursed at me and told me it was not to time to be a fag.

I cursed back, telling my inner self that just because I thought someone looked nice, didn't mean I was a fag.

I was mocking myself.

Shaking it off, I remembered that this person should not be in my room in the first place. I gave him a cold stare, waiting for an explanation. He didn't give me one. Instead, he crossed his arms, leaning against the wall and cocking an eyebrow at me. This guy was staring at me like I was some sort of retard.

Okay, so maybe I was sort of acting like one.

But I was entitled to, I mean, I had no clue what was going on.

He kept giving me that look, the look that was starting to piss me off.

Silence.

It was quiet until he started to burst out with laughter. That only pissed me off more.

"What the hell are YOU laughing at, asshole?! Now you have TWO questions to answer!"

I hissed. I could feel my blood rise to my face, as my cheeks became a beet red, out of pure anger at this stranger.

When he spoke, me heart nearly stopped. What a nice voice. He had this French accent. It wasn't very strong, but it was still there. I could tell. Then again, I was just good at telling what kind of accents people had.

"What ez this? Your mother ez sending a female to an all boys' school?'

I could feel my blood rising more. How DARE he claim me as a girl? My voice wasn't girly or high-pitched, and he knew it. He was just trying to piss me off. And worst of all, he didn't answer any of my two questions! But then again, I guess he did. He gave me hints, at least.

"I'm NOT a girl! I'm a **boy** you jerk! And if you are here to pick me up, you should have KNOCKED before barging into my room!"

I was up to my feet before he could even respond. He had stopped laughing by the time I had marched towards him, attempting to push him out. But he was much stronger than me, and he gave me a 'gentle' shove, causing me to fall onto my bed. I was glaring at his wide smirk; he was calling me weak through his smile.

He stood there, that proud smile slowly fading away. He scanned around the room, before picking up two of my bags that lay the floor; they had been right next to my bed.

"You, stupid boy. Listen now. I am an impatient person. I suggest you grab ze rest of your belongings and 'urry outside. We are leaving in exactly five minutes. Say goodbye to your little family and come with me."

He ordered. He wasn't joking, either. I could tell by his tone of voice that I was to do as he said . . . or pay for it. After giving him a few more harsh glares, I grabbed my last bag of belongings, rushing out my door and to my family (my parents and little brother usually get up early, very early) to give them my goodbyes. I gave my mom a kiss on the cheek, showing her that I wasn't way too upset with her (okay, so I was still angry at her, but I didn't want her to feel way too bad), and I ruffled up Ike's hair, who was half asleep as he took a bite out of his morning toast. Dad was watching TV; he liked watching the early morning news. All we did was exchange a 'manly' father-son hug.

That took a good three minutes out of my time. I rushed out side, only to find that this male was glaring at my impatiently, motioning for me to hurry up and put up my bag.

He was driving some pick-up truck. I opened up the backseat door, to set my bag in with the rest of my belonging. My face felt white when I spotted a… a shovel in the back seat. It was slightly rusted, and it looked like it was used not way too long ago. I gulped down my suspicions, slamming the back door closed and making my way into the passenger's seat.

I felt nervous, that shovel could have been used for anything.

. . . For digging . . .

. . . For . . . for killing . . .

. . . Oh, God . . . for burying bodies . . . !

I couldn't take it much longer. I had to know if this guy was some psycho maniac killer…

"Dude . . . um, what's your name . . . Why-why do you have a shovel in the backseat of your truck?"

I sounded innocent enough.

He gave me a pathetic look, the look he gave me in my room around six minutes ago. I felt the vehicle start to move out of the driveway, looking out the window to mentally say goodbye to my hometown.

It took him until we were completely out of the driveway to answer me.

"I like to dig."

Well that was way too much of a simple answer. Way to simple. It hardly gave me anything to think about at all.

"So, you aren't going to kill me with it."

He gave off an annoyed groan. I guess he was tired of looking at me, for he turned to face the front as we began to drive off.

"Keep up ze attitude, and I will."

He growled. I could feel his slight annoyance rub off on me. I don't know why I was acting like I was. I usually wasn't this… this stupid. Maybe I was hungry. Yeah, that's it. Hungry, and lonely. God, I need a friend more than ever.

"My name is-"

"Kyle, I know. My father told me before I left."

God, he sounded bitter. I think he realized this, because he almost cursed himself under his breath, as he shot a quick glance at me.

"Get me a smoke out of ze glove compartment."

He wanted a cigarette. So, he smoked to relieve him, huh? Might as well obey his orders, maybe we would both mellow out to at least strike up some sort of conversation.

I reached into the glove department, grabbing one stick and handing it too him as he reached in his pocket for a lighter.

"You can . . . have one if you want."

He offered. I shook my head, and I felt my tongue slip out of my mouth to make a gagging sound.

"Umn . . . no thanks. I don't smoke."

"Hmnnnn . . ."

He didn't seem to care. God, he had no social skills whatsoever.

"'ungry?"

My eyes grew wide when he asked this. I was, indeed, very hungry. I nodded, and he gave off an amused chuckle,

"Well zen, what do you want?"

"Don't care, anything."

I wouldn't be paying for it, so it was only fair that he chose what to eat.

"Fast food?"

I wasn't too thrilled over fast food. But I was so hungry that I couldn't be too picky at the moment.

". . . I want an egg and bacon sandwich . . ."

"Fine zen."

That was the most boring agreement I've ever made with someone. I glance at him for a moment before striking up a question that was seemingly important.

"What's your name?"

He gave me a quick glance before answering me.

"Christophe."

That made sense. It sounded pretty French to me. He cleared his throat before adding on,

"But don't call me zat . . . call me ze Mole . . . I hate my name . . ."

If my eyes got any wider, I swear they would fall out of their sockets. Why did that sound so familiar?

"Pardon?"

I ask for him to repeat, this was all too ironic for me to comprehend.

"Call me ze Mole . . . Don't call me by my real name . . ."

"Why not, Christ?"

He groaned a little, I could tell that he didn't like that name one bit. He spat out the name a few times before answering my dumb question,

"I don't want anyzing to do with that bastard."

That sounded familiar, too. His nickname, ze Mole, his hatred for God . . . smoking, the shovel. He didn't seem to remember me, but what did it matter? I sunk into my seat as we pulled up to the disgusting McDonalds . . . I hate this place. It's just so, how should I put it . . . overrated? Gross? I have no clue. Something about it just makes me want to vomit.

I see kids playing inside the little playroom from the large safety glass inside, parents talking and telling their kids to calm down. I remember those days.

. . . I miss my friends.

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_Hope you enjoyed reading this._

_Please leave a review._

_Thank you._


	3. The Road to Hell

**Rating: **_T_

**Pairings: **_Christophe x Kyle_

**Warnings: **_Nothing yet._

**Author of Chapter:** _Donna of the Grey_

**Notes: **_After TehShmexy's totally awesome chapter, I'm not sure I can do it as great as she did. But I still had fun with this. Enjoy, and please leave a review. It makes me happy. If you could recommend this fic to someone, that'd be great. :D_

_Sorry if this sounds rude._

**_No reviews. No update. If we get reviews, expect the next chapter by the 27 of June. If not, you'll have to wait two more weeks. We as authors would like to know what's enjoyable about our fic (or chapters.) If there are no reviews, then we'll think no one is reading, and then we'll have no reason to update._**

**_Thank you for your time._**

Ch**a**_p_**t**_**e**__r_ _**2**_

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"McDonalds?" Kyle says after I turn the engine off. His voice sounds disappointed. Like he has any right to be irritated. Because _I_ am the one who wasted gas and time to come pick _him_ up. Because _I _am the one who had to wake up two hours early to come and get him. Then again, my father paid me to do it. I never can turn down a job. He adds, "That's your choice of a restaurant?" However, this time it seems he's trying to start up some form of _conversation_.

"What? Ez zere anyzing wrong with it?" I grumble as I turn to glare at him.

" I . . . just think it's . . . not that great." He responds, scrunching his nose in disgust. "It's full of grease and the idiot employees that work there spit on the food."

"I'm guessing _any_ Fast Food restaurant employee would do zat." I roll my eyes. Not only does the kid look like a girl, he certainly acts like one. Even more than my ex-girlfriend, and that's pathetic. And even if they spit on the food, it's not like he'd notice. "Besides, it's ze only Fast Food restaurant by 'ere."

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow and looks mildly surprised. "Wow, that's sad. People just don't have good taste in food, do they."

What? Is he insinuating I like McDonalds? I personally think that restaurant is the definition of American shit. Plus, that red haired clown is fucking creepy and possibly a closet case. Or a pedophile. He's always surrounded by children.

"I'm going to leave you 'ere." I respond. He dares insult me? Bastard.

He should be apologizing and be begging not to be left out on the street. And he should be near tears. Before I get the urge to kill him. Except he doesn't do that. In fact, he looks _happy_ at my suggestion. Kyle _smiles_ at my suggestion.

"Great." He says. Optimistically, by the way. I don't know what's to hate more. The fact that he's being optimistic or the fact that my words didn't have any effect on him. Never have my words gotten that effect. Usually the person begins to cry or looks all upset. He's pissing me off. Kyle continues, by the way, all while smiling like a little child, "In fact, why don't you leave me here? It's only a thirty minute walk back to South Park." He then gives me a 'what do you think?' look.

I would love to kill him instead.

. . . My father would get angry if I killed him, though. He'd take my money, and send me to a Christian school. And that gigantic she-man woman that Kyle calls a Mother would probably chase me down and try to hurt me. With her fucking dogs. Those Doberman she had outside. I wouldn't put anything past that woman, from what I hear from my father. She seems to be very rash and close minded.

"No." I say. He stops from making his way out of the car.

"No?" Kyle repeats what I say. His voice sounds disappointed. I bet the idiot didn't even want to come to the school. Hell, his mother probably sent him to it against his will. All the more to take him there.

. . . And not kill him.

"No." I reply.

"What made you change your mind?" He asks. He's mocking me for sure. The little cock-sucking bastard.

"Fuck off." I mumble and toss my cigarette out the window.

He glares at me "I just asked a question. No need to be such a jerk!"

"What? Who're you calling a jerk?" I hiss at him, glaring. He shrinks down for a moment but keeps his glare on me. And it seems like he won't be stopping anything soon. He's acting like my mother when she's incredibly angry. And Kyle is pouting. God-loving bastard.

He's getting on my nerves.

"I told you, I'm not patient. So watch yourself, before I feel like 'itting you in ze back of your 'ead wiz my shovel!"

He crosses his arms and glares at the windshield. I think he mumbles a low 'go ahead' which is a good answer in my opinion. I feel like hitting him. Sadly, I can't, or his and my parents will mutilate me alive. Not that I'd easily let them.

"Well. Aren't you going to get off?" I ask him. "If we're going z'oo eat, you 'ave z'oo get off."

"I'm not getting off." Kyle grumbles. "I'm not hungry. Anymore."

"I'm 'ungry, and ze next restaurant ez ten miles from 'ere. So get off."

He turns to me and glares with his green eyes. I glare back. I wish my eyes could shoot lasers; he would have been dead ten minutes ago. Kyle leans forward, and jabs me in the chest.

"I'm—" _jab. _"—not—" _jab._ "—getting—" _jab_. "—off." _Jaaaab._

"Well, aren't you just fuckin' delightful?" I grab his hand and if the image of his family, friends, and dogs chasing me down with torches hadn't popped into my head, I would have broken Kyle's fingers off. Gladly. And more.

"Listen," I lean towards him too, and he presses back against the door. He's scared of me, I can tell. "I'm not going z'oo get in trouble because you refuse z'oo eat. So get off the fuckin' car before I make you in front of everyone in ze parking lot!"

"Jesus, I said, no!" He persists.

I grumble. Nobody makes it easy for me. God must really hate me. Bitch! I mean, making me bring a little brat with me in my car and spending an entire two hours with him? It's God's mission to make my life impossible.

I'm going to go insane soon, and I'm pretty sure he's the first one I'm getting. The _first_ fucking one. I get out of the car and slam the door shut, before making my way around it and opening his door. He gives me a startled and bewildered look and I laugh bitterly.

"What are you doing?" He asks suspiciously. I smirk. His expression is priceless. However, he gets riled up again and turns around in a huff. Why do I have to be stuck with immature little children?

I pull him by the arm and he shrieks. He nearly falls out of the car and flails his other arm in an effort to grab on to the inside of the car to pull himself up. He can't, because I'm holding on his arm. Tightly, by the way. That, and I'm pulling on his arm. I can tell by the way he's wincing.

"W-what are you doing?" He repeats, only a little more urgently this time. I ignore him and lift him up, pulling him out of the car and slamming the door shut, before locking it from the electric device connected to my key-chain.

"Let me go! This looks weird!" He turns a bright shade of pink.

. . . He really does look like a girl.

I guess I should agree, I _am_ carrying him bridal style.

"I don't know if I should, _Princess_. You'll probably run off." I respond.

"Princess?! What!" He punches me on my shoulder and I glare at him. Not that it hurt, but I don't appreciate being hit. Especially by a little pussy such as himself.

"No."

" . . . I won't." He says hopefully.

"You better not."

_Fucker_.

I let him down and he's about to run back to the car before I grab his arm and drag him towards the front doors of the restaurant.

As soon as we open them, the aroma of processed meat and French fries greets us, and the sickening scents of the breakfast foods. We both make a face and I head towards the counter, pulling him behind me. At the counter, there's a blonde girl. She looks like a Barbie doll, only with a creepier smile.

"Heh-lloh!" She greets us with a high voice. "Welcome to McDonalds. What can I get for you, cutie?" She curls some of her hair around a manicured finger. I bet she's a slut. She pop's her gum. Definitely a slut.

Kyle rolls his eyes and she sees him. She puts her hand to her mouth and does an over-dramatic 'oh my!' look. I swear, after I drop Kyle off I'm going to come back and smack her several times in the back of the head with my shovel. How dare she hit on me. I don't like whores. Especially ones wearing the McDonalds uniform and smiling all . . . creepily.

"I'm sorr-ie! I didn't realize you were here with your _girlfriend_!"

Him my girlfriend? No fucking way. I'd kill him before that happens. He glares at me and turns to her, pretty angry. I give her a disgusted look.

"Excuse me?" He shrieks. Fucking girl.

"Oh, it's okay, hon. No need to be ashamed. He's pretty cute." She winks at me.

I glare at her too.

"I'm not his gir—!" Kyle begins. But I just want to get out of here, so I cut him off.

"We'd like to order breakfast, now. _Please_." I grit out.

"Sure, what can I get you?" She responds, smiling her creepy whore smile.

I tell her and drag Kyle off to sit down in a booth while they prepare our food. By now, I've lost my appetite. I can't remember when, but it's gone now. I'm sure of it. I tap my fingers on the table as I look around the place. There's an overweight woman consuming a breakfast sandwich.

Near the windows, there is a family and the children seem to be acting up. One of the little girls slams food into her father's face and starts screaming wildly. Brat. In the corner there's a bunch of sluts, looking our way. And, they're giggling. I can feel their STDS floating our way. One, a blonde, looks at me and her sight switches to Kyle.

"Oh my God! Hot ass!" She shrieks.

Kyle, looks up startled from the table and turns around to face the person who called him, only to turn back to the table, bright red.

Suddenly, she's sitting next to him, smiling.

She's blonde, and if she didn't look like such a slut, she'd be a good model. She's wearing a tight fitting red top with a short black mini-skirt and really long boots. In other words, the definition of a hooker. She even has fish-nets on.

"What're you doing here?" She giggles and leans against him. I roll my eyes. Figures the bitch would be a displayer of public affection. She smiles at him and hugs his arm. "I didn't think I'd end up seeing you here. I called your house and your mother said you weren't home. So, who is this? Your friend?"

Kyle looks at me and glares. She doesn't even wait for answer. She glances over at me and smiles.

"I'm Bebe Stevens." She says and offers her hand to me. I look at it and scoff. Like I'm going to shake her hand. It's probably infected with herpes and other unknown diseases. She stares at me for a second and pouts, setting her hand down. "Well, aren't you rude."

I scoff again. I don't need to answer anyone. Especially her.

"Anyways, Kyle you didn't answer my question. Why are you here?"

"Eating breakfast, Bebe. What does it look like?" He mumbles, pushing her arm off.

She pouts again and smiles. Bebe leans against him again and giggles for the fifth time in a row. "Well, Kyle. You still going out with Rebecca? I hear she's been all over Token."

"Like I care. I can't pay attention to her all the time."

"Who ez Rebecca?" I ask. I'm not really interested, but talking to someone is way better than staring at the idiots inside McDonalds. Bebe looks surprised and the smile returns to her face. She pushes her chest forward (practically shoving her large breasts at me) and opens her mouth to talk.

"Oh, she's Kyle's slutty little girlfriend." She answers simply, playing with her freakishly curly hair.

I look at him and he looks uninterested. He's probably heard this more than once from the looks of it. So the little _girl_ likes sluts. I'm amazed. He seems too girly to like other girls.

"Slutty?"

"Oh yeah," She nods and turns to give her two friends a 'hold on' gesture and turns back to me. "She's like, fifteen and she works at the local strip bar. She just _loves_ showing her breasts off to the men of South Park. And doing business for them, if you know what I mean."

"That's disgusting." I respond.

Kyle rolls his eyes.

"You know, I never understood why you were going out with her, _Sweet Cheeks_." At this remark, Kyle glares at Bebe and she laughs. "She's a total slut. She's always showing off her fake boobs. Everyone knows she went and got plastic surgery. Not to mention she's made out with over fifty men. I'm scared you might have gotten something from her."

"What are you talking about? I haven't kissed her, besides that time in third grade."

I roll my eyes, turning to look at the register to see if they're going to call our number. The blonde is still there, staring straight ahead and smiling. It's creepy. I turn back to the two idiots in front of me, only to see the red haired one glaring and the blonde giggling.

"Like you would touch her. I just went out with her because my friend told me too."

"Who did?" Bebe pokes him.

"Kenny."

"Ugh! I'm not going to forgive him for what he did at Clyde's party."

"What did 'e do." I respond in monotone.

"He—" Bebe begins, looking pissed off, and Kyle cuts her off by pressing his hand in front of her mouth. She gives him a look and he returns it and simply states, "It's not important."

"Anyway, Kyle. Seriously, break up with her. She works at a strip bar." She shakes her head.

"You seem perfect for zat job." I say. I want her to go away. She's loud, talkative, annoying, and she seems too hyper. Besides, she's making my head hurt, and she's scared my appetite even more. She glares at me, red lips puckering up and blue eyes glittering.

"Fuck you, asshole." She growls before she slides out of the booth and stands up. "Goodbye, Hot Ass!" She giggles and heads back to her table with her annoying friends, who seem irritated that she's been gone talking to us. Kyle rolls his eyes and looks at me.

"Just ignore her. She's talkative."

"A little z'oo much."

"Exactly."

"Why does she call you zat . . . ?" I ask. His nicknames are . . . interesting, to say the least.

"I'd rather not talk about it." He turns pink.

"Number seven!" The creepy Barbie blonde calls.

That's our number. Finally. I stand up and make my way towards the register. As I get closer, the aroma of the food makes it's way to my nose. My stomach does not agree with it, as my appetite ran off some time ago. "I hope you enjoy your food, cutie!"

"Yeah right."

I make my way back to the table, holding the mustard yellow tray with our food on it.

"Enjoy."

I drop the tray into the table. It clatters loudly and some people turn around, including Bebe and her two slutty friends. I glare at them and set our drinks down.

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We finally finish and get out of the restaurant. Well, more like I finish. Kyle barely touched his food and kept making faces at it. If he wasn't going to high school, I'd say he was a little kid. If he heard me, he'd start glaring at me again. Thankfully, he stopped once we were inside the restaurant. And he wasn't being annoying as he had been when we got there.

Bebe found it upon herself to make a big deal when we were leaving. She wouldn't have, if Kyle hadn't told her he wasn't going to be back in South Park anytime soon, but he did and she made a fuss about it. The creepy Barbie blonde even asked her if she could stop, all while wearing a smile. Even the weirdoes around the place stopped what they were doing and were listening to her rant on and on about Kyle's mother.

"So, what's this school like?" He said after a couple minutes. Once we're already in the car and driving off.

"It's stupid. Z'oo many idiots running around the place." I shrug. "And ze 'orny boys who like 'itting on ze other boys."

"What?"

"I suggest you watch yourself, Kyle. Zey will probably try somezing with you."

"What!" He looked surprised.

I smirk. His mother thought she was doing good in sending him to our school. If she had bothered to check it out, she'd have known that was the last place she'd want to send her precious little son to. With all the boys running around trying to get some action because they were depraved from girls. Some got really desperate.

"Jesus. I don't want to get raped!" He grumbles, crossing his arms.

"'ey, at least you aren't a virgin. Zey'd like zat ze most."

" . . ."

"You're steell a . . . ?"

"I'm NOT!" He shrieks defensively. His face is bright pink. He is lying. I can tell. I'm not an idiot, whatever the little idiot believes.

"Right."

"Shut up!"

I smirk.

"If you're sooo great, when did you lose yours?" He demands, pointing at me.

"Fourteen."

"JESUS!"

I smirk again, and he rolls his eyes. "Oh, really. And have you have sex after that?"

"Yes, about three months ago."

"Ugh."

"She was a bad fuck anyway." I say, recalling the event. She was some black haired girl in my Biology class before my father decided I had to go to his school, and she was always hitting on me, saying the French were really 'hottt' to her. I was bored and decided to give it a go with her. She wasn't that great.

"I don't need to know."

"I know."

He laughed and punched me in the shoulder.

This time, I didn't mind.

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I took Kyle's things out of the back seat and closed the door, before locking the car. He was busy ogling the place all amazed and full of wonder. Sure the school was big, but it wasn't that interesting. I shrugged and walked in front of him. "Follow me."

He followed like a lost puppy. Like he should be.

It would have been easy, had not all of those guys been hitting on Kyle on the way there. They were coming out of no where. And they were annoying me.

They said the stupidest things.

"Hey Sexy!"

"WOW! Sweet Ass!" (That sounded so familiar)

"Cutie."

"Daaaamn! I'd tap that!"

That summed it up. And things that I dare not repeat. By the time we got to my father's office, he already looked scared. Oh, wait until we get inside. Fucking wait.

I open the door and let myself in. The room smells like lavender and many other flowers. My father like's to have his office smell like a fucking garden. Any other pussy would be happy in this office. Kyle rushes into the office and bumps into me; a guy laughs outside. I understand. I'd have been scared if I was a pussy too. He lets out a deep breath and mumbles. "You were so right."

"See?"

My father suddenly steps out of his bathroom (in a very flamboyant and womanly manner) and turns to look to us. A smile graces his face. Kyle is definitely not prepared for my father.

He's wearing his usual burgundy suit (Something he saw in Anchorman. He said it made Will Ferrell look cute, and so would he.) His hair is still completely brown because he takes better care of it than any other man. His face is completely hairless. Something about now being able to wear blush otherwise. From afar, he seems like a real serious and grumpy man.

"Oh my God, sweetie, you're here! Your mother called a while ago to see if you were here! She was so worried!" He has a perfect English accent, unlike me. There is lisp in it. He is also, the definition of raging homosexual. One reason my mother left him. Kyle blinks.

"I told her you were already arriving, and look, here you are!" He let out a loud giggle. Kyle blinks again. "Well, anyway, darling, welcome to Sir William's!" He gives Kyle a hug (who looks very uncomfortable) and smiles.

"I hope those naughty boys out there didn't give you trouble!" Father wags his finger and giggles again. He shakes his head and turns to us.

"Um . . . not . . . at all." He replies slowly.

"Oh Goody!" Father claps his hands like a child.

The phone rings and he dashes towards it, putting on a serious expression. "Hello?" He answers. His voice has dropped the lisp and he actually sounds like the man he's supposed to be. "Ah, yes, Sheila. Your son has arrived, would you like to talk to him?"

He nods and hands Kyle the phone. After a few minutes, he hangs up.

"Oh, Sheila is so rash!" Father waves his hand airily. "She always jumps to conclusions. I've known her for ages. She's so close-minded sometimes! But she's a sweetie!"

I roll my eyes. Kyle does the same. That's fucking bullshit.

"Don't worry, Kyle, I'll keep your secrets here!" Father winks. He _fucking_ winks. I can hardly believe how gay he is. It's so sickening sometimes that he fits the stereotype perfectly. Kyle blinks again. "Even though I have to report some things to your dear Mother."

"Here's your schedule." He hands him a magenta piece of paper and Kyle looks over it.

"Er . . . thanks."

"Also, before I forget, even though I shouldn't!" Father giggled. "You shall be sharing your room with my little Christophe here!"

"What? Papa, I do not want so share my room wiz 'im!" I grumble, crossing my arms. "I don't want to deal wiz a brat!" He doesn't listen. Fucking bastard! He's still talking, but Kyle is glaring at me.

He mouths a 'Fuck you.'

"It seems fitting, seeing as how you're an upperclassman. A Junior, to be exact."

"Junior?" Kyle looks at me. He probably thought I was his age too. I scoff. As if.

"Now off you go, so Christophe can show you the school!" He chuckled. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" With this, he winks.

I hastily grab his bags and make my way to my room. I have the privilege to have my own room, seeing as my father is the Principal. FUCK. Now, I have to share it with Kyle? Shit. He's going to be a little brat about it. I'm pissed off.

. . . I suppose it's for the best, otherwise he'd get raped.

"Hey, Chris! Who's your _boyfriend_?" Some idiot laughs.

"'e's not." I mumble.

"Really? Can I have him then? He's so delicious!" He and his friends laugh, and one of them reaches over and grabs Kyle's ass. Yes, as you can see, the morons in this school and horny and badly mannered. He shrieks and grabs my hand.

Pshff. I didn't give him permission too. He seems to realize this because he blushes furiously and looks away. He lets go. I grab his arm roughly. There's no way I'm going to walk slowly to my room while these idiots keep making remarks. He's lucky it's the day before school begins. Tomorrow it'll be much worse.

I drag him forcefully to the stairs.

After hearing many irritated comments, we finally make it to my . . . _our_ room.

"Well, zere you go." I say. "I 'ope you're prepared for ze rest of ze year."

"I fucking hate this."

"That's lovely."

"Shut up, _Christophe_. I can handle the year."

He doesn't look like he can. He sighs and drops the few items he's carrying. He looks around the room, and then turns to me, looking a little disturbed.

"There's only _one_ bed."

"Sheet."

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_Hope you enjoyed reading this._

_Please leave a review._

_Thank you._


	4. Friends?

**Rating: **_T_

**Pairings: **_Christophe x Kyle_

**Warnings: **_Butt secks! (No, just kidding . . . )_

**Author of Chapter:** _TehShmexyRamen_

**Leave a review. Or no update. Thank you.**

**If we get reviews, the next chapter will be out ****July 3.**

Also, be sure to check out our deviantArt since it's South Park related. Separated by spaces.

http // tehshmexyramen. Deviantart. com /

http // onigirikitty. deviantart. Com /

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_**Cha**__**p**__**t**_e_**r**_ 3

Oh _hell_ no.

There is no way in-in . . . _no way_, no possible way I am going to sleep within a mere _centimeter_ of that guy.

I don't _trust_ this guy. I don't _like_ this guy. I've only met him _once_. And that was when I was eight years old! I thought the guy died! But no, Kenny just had to wish things better, before that retarded war even began. Meaning this _jerk_ got another chance to live.

Wow, I sound like a total douche.

I'm thinking all of this as I unpack my things, setting half of my clothes neatly into the unoccupied drawer that comes with the room.

Man, I must really dislike the guy. I'm usually never this cruel. Only to that fatass, but I hardly get to unleash my wrath on him anymore, seeing as he has Wendy as a girlfriend.

Clingy, bitchy, Wendy Testaburger.

Hmn, but it's not like I care.

As soon as I'm done with unloading, I turn around to see him. He's lying on the only bed we have, glaring at me.

What does he have to glare at me for?! He knew that there was only one bed, and just seemed to have 'forgotten' to tell me? Though, he may have been too busy ignoring all those guys on our way in. Or he was too busy imagining shoving a shovel through my ear. Ugh . . .

Those boys would get along with Kenny so well. So well, it makes me want to vomit.

They reminded me all too much of the combination between Bebe and Kenny.

_Nasty_ combination.

That's like, horrible.

God, he's been glaring at me for two minutes, one minute too long.

It isn't long before I feel my blood slightly rise, and I clench my fists gently, only to show him a sign I didn't like that look of his.

"And just WHAT are you glaring at ME for?!"

"I have all ze right z'oo glare at you."

"And what reasons would those be, huh?"

I know all the reasons.

"One. You are an ide'ot."

I strongly disagree, but I keep my mouth shut and listen. He's eyeing both me and the shovel that he sat next to the bed.

He must have brought the shovel with him, and I didn't even notice.

Though I don't see how I could possibly miss seeing him bring in a rusty shovel.

And I know why he did bring it with him, too.

"Two. I'm going z'oo have z'oo deal we'th those boys. You are my responsibility. You pest."

Like it's my fault I'm attractive. Seriously. It also isn't my fault the boys here lack females.

I want to tell him this, but he's still giving me those icy stares . . .

"Three. I don't want a room-mate."

Still not my fault.

"Four. Ze way you acted this morning, not a good impression."

Okay, so I was acting immature. I regret that. But I'm going through so much right now.

"Five. I'm not sharing a bed with ze likes of _you_. You, my friend, are sleeping on ze floor."

Now, that pissed me off. I returned the glare.

"Six . . ."

GOD! How many reasons does he have to hate me?!

I'm about to tell him off when he finally speaks,

"You have yet to tell me why your mo'zer sent you here."

I don't want to tell him. He doesn't need to know. And why would he want to know? Nosey much? Well, I guess I would be a little curious, too.

"So, are you going z'oo fix ze flaws? If you do, I will cons'eder letting you sleep in ze bed alone, and I will sleep on ze floor."

I'm too stubborn to completely agree to that, or at least verbally.

"And what would I have to do to fix that?"

I ask, as I cock my eyebrow. He gives off some sort of smirk, but not necessarily like the ones he had given me all day.

"If ze story you are about z'oo tell me ez very personal, and you tell me, I'll let you sleep in ze bed tonight. Ze other nights, you will have z'oo change your attitude. Once I see a change, ze bed will be all yours. Deal? I'll be ze judge of ze story."

Getting off of the bed, he edges his way towards me, holding out a firm hand. And I take it in mine, shaking it with a nod.

-------------------------------------------------------------

He's laughing. Hard.

I just want to take that shovel of his and smack him so hard on the back of the head that he passes out, bleeding out of his skull and drowning in his own crimson red liquid.

But the shovel is on the opposite side of the bed.

He's sitting- well, rolling around, right beside me. One of his hands are clutching his forehead, and the other is just laying there besides himself.

I'm sitting up, and blushing.

Honestly, I don't see how it's funny.

Or at least not _that_ funny.

I hate him. I really do right now.

He takes a few breaths, sitting up and letting out a few more 'giggles' before shutting his mouth.

"'Finally."

I hiss, un-amused by his little laughing fit. I watch him from the corner of my eye, still embarrassed. Right now, I really regret telling him about it, but I'm not used to sleeping on the floor. And when I do sleep on the floor, I usually wake up with some back pain. Something like a cramp, only I think it hurts worse.

He pauses for a moment, before he speaks,

"Z'at 'is really dumb. 'ow could you be so stupid?"

I can't answer that question. I hardly even knew why I did it. Besides the fact I was tipsy.

"I told you, I was drunk."

"Can't you contain yourself from a few drinks?"

"It was my first real time . . ." I huff.

I'm pouting, and I hate it when I begin to pout. My cheeks become a shade of pink, and I look and sound like the little eight year old I once was.

He looks like he's being amused by my little eight year old 'technique', and only smirking wider.

If he smirked any wider, his face would rip.

I'd like to see that happen, actually.

"You're an embarrassment."

Chuckling, he stands from the bed, shuffling around the small room as though he's waiting in for a baby to be born. More like pacing.

He's thinking.

He comes to a halt, setting a finger under his chin, and shutting his eyes as though this were a life of death situation.

He's done thinking, and he opens his eyes and turns to face me.

"Alright, you can sleep 'in ze bed for tonight."

Letting out a breath of relief, I begin to calm down. I'm just glad I didn't tell him the whole story for nothing. I only told him what I could remember, though. I don't want to remember **everything** that happened . . .

He gives me another smirk, before grabbing what looks like money off the counter. I know it isn't my money, I kept mine safely hidden.

He turns to face me again, and his smirk softens as he places the money in his back pocket,

"I won't be here most of the night, anyways."

What?

What did he mean by that?

Wait, was he just going to . . . going to leave me here all alone in an unfamiliar building?

A building that, if I left the room, I would be sexually harassed, maybe even raped?!

I didn't want to be cowering in fear, locked inside a room all alone all night.

" . . . excuse me?"

"You heard me, id'eot."

"And just where are you going?! You can't leave me here all alone, I just got here and there are a bunch of . . . of SHARK outside!"

"Quiet, le'ttle tadpole. Just keep yourself safely and quietly in zis room."

"Where are you going? Isn't there some sort of curfew?"

It isn't really any of my business, but I'm curious.

"The principle ez my _father_. He lets my friends and I stay out late. You can say that I'm just special."

Yeah, so just leave me here. It's still early.

Well, almost four in the afternoon . . .

"I am going out we'th a friend of mine. Just him and I. I would bring you along, tadpole, but my best friend wanted it to be just the two of us."

Sounded more like a date to me.

"He'll be here soon."

He? Was he going on a date with a guy, and his best friend to top it?

As if he can read my mind, his facial expression changes,

"And no, et' ez not a date. Just because I because I would rather hang out we'th my best friend than hang out we'th you, doesn't make me gay."

I guess he made a point, hardly.

He makes his way towards the very tiny bathroom, shuts the door. I can faintly hear the shower head hiss. Water is pouring down into the drain. I can hear him undress and even step into the shower.

He's getting cleaned up, before his _date_.

'_Good, he smelt like dirt, anyways'_, I think to myself, getting a better look around the room. I noticed a computer sitting on a desk, and made it my advantage to try contacting my friends.

I take a seat onto the tiny cushioned chair, moving the mouse a little to un-blacken the screen.

. . . ew!

Is that his _screensaver_?!

His screensaver is a large photo of some playboy chick. It . . . it's disgusting!

She's half naked. Her tits are in clear view, and she's wearing this tiny, tiny thong.

I hate playboy chicks.

My eyes leave the computer screen, as I wait for the internet page to pop up after I click it twice. I peek back at the screen, and see the large 'Google' logo on the screen. It isn't long before I'm e-mailing my two best friends. I hear the shower head turn off, and right when I'm finished.

I press the small x on the upper right hand corner, and shut down the computer. I don't want to see that girl any longer, and I don't want to wait for the computer to blacken out on its own, that takes too long.

I lay on top of the bed now labeled mine for the night.

Just waiting for something to happen.

I haven't even been here for a full 24 hours, and I'm missing South Park.

Something is always going on in South Park.

I hear a light knock on the door, and seeing as _Christophe_ is still getting ready in the restroom . . . I answer it.

This very, _very_ handsome male appears in clear view, and he gives me a warm smile.

Oh wow, what a nice smile.

He is a few inches taller than me, and he looks a little older as well. He has this blonde, wavy hair, and is dressed in very formal, nice clean clothing. His eyes are this very light blue, like the sky. Wow . . . he's so beautiful.

God, what is with me, seriously?

I can't help but feel a tad jealous of his beauty.

"Oh, hello there. I'm looking for Christophe. You must be the new student. I had no idea you were rooming with Christophe. It's a pleasure to meet you, um, may I ask for your name?"

God, he's so polite. I'm sure this is the guy Mole was leaving with. How could someone as nice as him have a best friend like _The Mole_? I didn't get it.

"Kyle Broflovski, pleasure to meet you, too."

I can't help but smile. This is the nicest attention I've gotten all day. He holds out a hand for me to shake, and I gladly take it into mine as I greet myself. He releases and bows slightly,

"I am Gregory, Christophe's best friend. The pleasure's all mine."

Why does that name seem all too familiar?

"Oh dear, is he even here? I don't see him . . . ."

"He's just getting out of the shower."

"Oh-ho, I see. Mind if I come in?"

It wasn't really like it was my room, though I was sharing it with _'The Mole'_.

I step aside, allowing him to come in before shutting the door afterwards.

"Well, Kyle, it looks like you've gotten nicely situated so far. Has Christophe given you any trouble?"

I noticed he hasn't called him by his nickname _The Mole_ at all yet. Now by any other nickname like _Chris_ yet. I thought he hated being called by his real name. But then again, he wasn't actually here to hear him. Unless he had super good hearing and can hear up from the bathroom.

"N-no." I lie, "Not really."

"Ah good. Christophe can be a real bully at times."

'_You can say that again.' _My mind tells him, but he doesn't hear, he _can't_ hear.

"But once you spend a lot of time with him, you get to see a side of him that you can't help but be attached to. Heh, I call myself lucky for being so close to him. Do you have a best friend, Kyle?"

"Yeah . . . We're really close, but . . ."

I can feel my eyes wander off to my feet, and I wiggle my toes a bit. My shoes are off, and my socks are green. That was . . . random?

"But, what?"

He asked curiously. I can hear Mole humming some off-beat melody, and it echoes in the restroom,

"I'll hardly ever be able to see him again . . . He lives two or so hours away from here."

But I don't want pity. He asked, and I answered.

"Oh-ho . . . that's a real shame. I'm sorry about that."

"Oh, it isn't your fault, Gregory."

I force my eyes to look at him, and I smile.

"Gregory? You're a b'et early."

In unison, we both turn our heads around to face him. He's wearing the same cloths he was wearing before his shower, which I don't think is considered to be 'clean'.

"Oh, or maybe you forgot the time I was coming?"

He had the same teasing tone as my friends did when we were '_arguing' _with each other.

"Well, I am ready. I see you met ze id'eot."

He's referring to me. It was rude, to say the least. I ignore that oh-so-lovely comment of his and turn to Gregory. He has his hands placed on his hips, and a stern look on his face,

"Now now, Christophe. Must you be rude to everyone you meet?"

"Are we go'ing or not?"

"Fine."

Gregory turns to face me, a warm smile on his face,

"It was nice to meet you, Kyle."

He bows, the turns to _The_ _Mole_.

"Now you."

I have no idea what he is talking about, but it seems Mole does. He lets out a groan, and turns to face me,

"Goodbye, Kyle. _Have fun_."

He practically spits out the words. What, he couldn't give me a decent goodbye or something? Was it so hard for him to tell my goodbye?

In a matter of minutes, they're gone.

And I'm alone.

All alone.

And it's only four thirty-five in the afternoon.

------------------------------------------------------------

I can't stand being trapped inside this room.

It's seven twenty-two, and ever since they left all I've done was play on the computer. I had to ignore the screensaver again . . .

Stan and Kenny still haven't respond to my e-mail.

I wonder if they miss me.

God, what have I gotten myself into?

Though Stan and Kenny 'helped' out a little, it was still mostly my fault.

And now, I'm paying the price.

This is why I am usually a 'goody-goody,' and was in the past. This is why I was a good student, honest, always did the right thing . . .

And now, I've made one mistake, and look where I am.

Shit . . .

I wonder what they're doing now.

Kenny and Stan, that is . . .

My mind flickers to Gregory and _The Mole_.

. . . and I don't know what to think.

I wonder if both of then were gay.

But Mole told me that he had sex with a _girl_ not all too long ago.

Maybe he was _bi_?

I don't mean to sound rude or anything, but Gregory seems like he is.

I don't know, he just _seems_ like it.

Guh, I don't trust them being out alone.

Why couldn't I come, huh?!

. . . Whoa, I wonder if they're doing . . . _that_.

My stomach does a flip and I feel like vomiting, but I don't know why.

I guess I just don't like the image.

But why, why do I care?

I'm not jealous or anything.

I hardly know Gregory and I _hate_ Mole.

Then I can hear Gregory's words _ring_ in me head . . .

'_But once you spend a lot of time with him, you get to see a side of him that you can't help but be attached to.'_

I can't help but wonder what that could mean. But maybe, just maybe, we could learn to be friends.

. . . _maybe_.

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_Hope you enjoyed reading this._

_Please leave a review._

_Thank you._


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